


Keep Us Warm

by hurricanine



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanine/pseuds/hurricanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he's around Trevor, he can feel himself slipping. All the carefully constructed lies of his new life, ten years of hard work which left him a miserable wreck, come crashing down when Trevor rolls up in his rust-eaten red Bohdi. Trevor hasn't forgiven him, probably never will, but Michael sees him slipping too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Us Warm

There are things that Michael hasn't thought about in years, memories so far repressed that even his therapist hadn't been able to wrestle them into the light. After Ludendorff, forgetting became a necessary evil, a justification to keep him sane – but once Trevor forces his way back into Michael's life, it isn't quite that easy. The memories come like raindrops out of the blue. He hears the rumble of an engine and he can see Trevor standing on that dusty runway beside a beat-up old Beagle, wiry and nervous like a horse easily spooked. The smell of gunpowder and gasoline takes him back to their first heist together, and the exhilaration and terror of just _remembering_ makes his heart beat faster.

When he's around Trevor, he can feel himself slipping. All the carefully constructed lies of his new life, ten years of hard work which left him a miserable wreck, come crashing down when Trevor rolls up in his rust-eaten red Bohdi. Trevor hasn't forgiven him, probably never will, but Michael sees him slipping too.

He's sitting shotgun in Trevor's truck, somewhere out past Sandy Shores, riding each jarring jolt as the tires bound over potholes and roadkill. He jams his head back against the seat and stares up at the moon and stars, stationary even as the truck tears down a country lane at a hundred miles per hour. They're headed out to check out some abandoned factory, but seeing as Lester has yet to reveal his master plan, they aren't in any hurry. They can do as they like, as long as they scope the place out by morning, and it feels good to drive just for the sake of _driving_.

Michael blinks and he's back ten- no, twenty- years ago. It's early in the summer, somewhere between Nebraska and Iowa, but it's not quite so chilly that it makes sleeping outside uncomfortable. They take the truck out to the middle of a cornfield, the tires spinning in mud and sprouting stalks. Laying out in the bed of the truck, propped up on a duffel bag or two of unwashed clothes, they drink and smoke and watch the moon rise high overhead. Short-sleeve shirts aren't quite enough and they gravitate closer. Neither of them mentions the way they press together, shoulder to hip, sharing sweat and body heat. They drink and they smoke until the stars blur, until dawn takes them.

All of that in a single rush of longing, of a far-off happiness that seems too good to have ever been true, but it's so real, so _good_ that Michael finds himself wanting to believe it.

“Remember when-” He stops. Trevor glances over at him as he drives and raises a scarred eyebrow. Michael shrugs and sinks a little further down into his seat, legs stretched out under the dash. He can feel the rumble of the engine through the soles of his shoes.

“Remember what?” It's the first they've spoken since the bright lights of Los Santos slipped out of the rear-view mirror, but Trevor sounds like he hasn't spoken in a week.

Michael feels more than foolish. “Nah, it's nothin'.”

“Michael.” Trevor's hands are curled tight around the steering wheel. Moonlight is too soft, too forgiving, on his skin. It makes the tattoos on his knuckles, the dirt and caked blood, fade into shadow.

He licks his lips. “Remember the old days? Sleepin' out in whatever car we'd stolen that day, just us and the wilderness like something out of a movie.” He can't help but grin.

“You mean freezing our balls off in the middle of nowhere 'cause the car broke down, and we couldn't afford a room in a motel 'cause the last job went to shit?” Trevor snorts. “Yeah, I remember the old days.”

“Aw, it wasn't so bad. Was it?”

Trevor laughs. “Oh, Mikey. You've gone soft in your middle years.”

“Yeah, suppose I have.” He shifts around in the seat, remembering how he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat, even with Trevor's reckless driving. He could never get away with that now; it would be days before his back forgave him. “I miss that, sometimes.”

Trevor is silent for a long moment. Michael counts the seconds and waits for Trevor's inevitable retort about missing the time before he knew his best friend was such a snake. It doesn't come. “Me too, M.”

They drive for a minute more before the truck's tires start grinding through gravel and dirt. Trevor pulls off of the road, letting the Bohdi glide to a stop between the dunes. Michael blinks over at him, not sure what to expect.

“C'mon,” the other man mumbles, not meeting his eye. “Got a couple beers in the back.”

It's colder in the desert than those nights in the Midwest, so Michael feels justified in forcing his shoulder up against Trevor's as they crack open the bottles. The bed of the truck is smaller, too, or maybe they just take up more space now than they did then.

A couple beers turns into three, then four, and Michael's always been able to hold his liquor – though Trevor could drink him under the table any day – but something about the night makes it easy to talk a little looser, a little louder, until they're laughing just to hear the laughter echoed back in the darkness. The endless sky is only broken by the occasional plane soaring far overhead, the stillness by the shrill cry of a coyote, and it's familiar, and it's good.

Michael leans hard against Trevor's side, cradling a half-empty bottle between his hands. Trevor's talking, more like rambling, and try as he might Michael just can't follow. He lifts his drink and gets distracted, sucks at the lip of the bottle as he tries to remember what number beer he's on. He doesn't miss the way Trevor's gaze lingers on his mouth, the sentence he was fumbling his way through now stopped altogether. Michael sets the bottle down between his thighs, licking his lips self-consciously, and a peculiar heat spreads across his cheeks. He tries to remember what they were talking about, but fails.

“Trev?”

He watches Trevor swallow, eyes drawn irritably to the curve of the other man's neck. The sight of those muscles contracting strikes him as something which should just not be _allowed_ , and he can't look away from that moonlit stretch of skin marked and marred by tattoos and scars. He wants to trace them with his tongue; he leans closer, nearly does.

“Mikey.” There's a hand on his chest, halting his progress. “M. You'd better think long and hard 'bout... whatever the fuck it is you're doing.”

He doesn't want to think about it. He's spent ten years, maybe more, _not_ thinking about it; if he thinks about this now, there's a good chance he'll make the right decision and not go through with it. So Michael sits there, not thinking about how much he wants to shift over and press Trevor down into the bed of the truck, not thinking about how much he wants to shove his hands under Trevor's stained shirt and touch the skin he's denied himself purely on principle, not _thinking_ about how much he wants, and _wants_.

He blinks hazily at Trevor, then up at the stars dancing overhead. He hears a growl and then Trevor's on him, mud-caked boots knocking heavily against Michael's shoes as his mouth seals unfathomably hot over the point of his pulse on his neck. They're tangled in the bed of the truck, rutting like teenagers, like some mighty fucking dam just broke and they're powerless to stop it. Michael lets his head fall back with a pitiful groan, grabbing fistfuls of Trevor's shirt and pulling it up until it bunches under his armpits.

“Fuckin' A...” Trevor shifts above him and their legs slot together like it was made to be this way. Michael manages a stuttered breath or two before Trevor's moved from his neck to his mouth, kissing with the same ferocity that he does everything else. Trevor kisses like he doesn't know how to kiss, like biting is somehow a necessity, and he carries on in the same savage manner until Michael sucks lewdly on the other man's tongue. Trevor gives a full-bodied shudder and shoves his hips roughly against Michael's, and there's a glint in his eyes that says without words the many uses he's just decided for Michael's mouth.

But not now, not now, because Trevor's somehow worked his hands between their bodies, unbuckling Michael's belt and unzipping his fly with more coordination than he would have expected. Any rational thought goes out the window when Trevor gets a hand on his dick, too tight and too rough and Michael is glad for Trevor's mouth against his because it muffles the broken moan he makes. He plants his feet against the rusted metal of the bed of the truck, rocking up against his friend, fingernails scoring lines down Trevor's back.

He doesn't know how long he goes on like that, but Trevor stops and sits back before the burn of pleasure can amount to anything. His eyes rove across Michael's disheveled appearance like he's surveying his fucking _territory_ , and he has the nerve to smirk as he pulls open his jeans, tugs his cock out and strokes it like he's putting on a show.

“God fucking dammit, T.” The desperation in his voice must not have been enough, because Trevor doesn't move, just leers and pants and doesn't fucking _move_.

Michael growls and surges upward, priding himself on the brief flash of surprise in Trevor's eyes – the look doesn't last long before it's obscured by arousal once more, especially once Michael rolls them over and covers Trevor's body with his own. His fingers tangle with Trevor's as he jerks them both off, panting and rutting like an animal in heat, and it's never felt this raw, this real.

With a moan that sounds almost choked, almost wounded, Trevor bucks into their hands and spills hot and messy between them. His hand doesn't stop moving until Michael's coming too, clenching his teeth to keep from moaning Trevor's name.

They're still for a long moment, breathing hard and waiting for their hearts to stop racing, for the world to stop spinning. Michael rolls to the side and the night air feels colder than it did before; he breathes deep, eyes shut, and then tugs his clothes back into place with clumsy hands. Trevor doesn't bother, just lays there under the open sky, and when Michael risks a glance over, there's a look on the other man's face like he's found peace for the first time in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there we have it - my first contribution to this fine fandom. Hopefully it will be the first of many! I have a few longer story ideas kicking around, but this one demanded to be written and posted first. :)


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